


Animus

by draculard



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Animal Instincts, Animal Transformation, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Resurrection, The Old Gods (ASoIaF), Wolf Robb Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 03:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18241559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: On the night of the Blue Moth Moon, unnatural creatures lurk in the forests of Westeros, each one crafted with care by the Old Gods.When Robb Stark opens his eyes, he knows immediately that something has changed.





	Animus

When Robb wakes up for the last time, everything has changed. He feels the crawl of ants along his skin, creeping in and out of open wounds. Blindly, he claws at his tunic, trying to bat them away -- but the thick material is stiff and crusty, stuck to his skin by some dried substance he can’t quite identify. He scrapes at it with short fingernails, brings his hands up to his face --

And that’s when he realizes that something else is different. His eyes have changed. He sees everything differently -- the world is clearer yet darker than before. He can’t tell the difference between sight and smell.

His breathing comes harsh. Above him, the moon shines a pale blue, throwing light on his bloodied hands.

Everything comes back to him at once.

The slide of a knife in his abdomen. The spill of blood against his hands, the greying of his vision. But he also remembers things he shouldn’t, moments that should have been struck from his mind -- the ragged blade of a rusty dagger biting into his neck. The hands in his hair, ripping his head away from his body. The drive of a spike down into his open wound, wood scraping against his spine.

Grey Wind’s head on his shoulders.

With shaking hands, Robb reaches up and sinks his fingers into the all-too-familiar fur on his face. He touches his ears, his snout, the curve of his fangs. Where Grey Wind’s head meets his neck, there is a seam, like a long-healed row of stitches.

Robb lies on the forest floor -- human body, inhuman head. The sounds of the forest make his ears twitch -- noises he’s never truly heard before assaulting him with their nearness. A fox’s paws picking almost silently through the mess of twigs and fallen leaves. The quiet muttering of men as they drink their ale in a town that must be at least a league off. The whickering of their horses.

Robb Stark must have killed at least a dozen horses in the Battle of the Whispering Wood. He remembers sinking his teeth into their necks, his claws piercing their flanks, the dark blood running through each horse’s hair as they died.

But that’s wrong. Robb doesn’t kill animals in battle. His thoughts are muddled, his memories stumbling over themselves. His senses are at war with each other. He sees the color of the Blue Moth Moon when everything around him is grey.

He has to go.

He needs to stand, to run.

To hunt.

Adrenaline surges through Robb’s limbs, driving him to his feet and through the woods at a speed he’s never known -- at a speed that’s too fast and far too slow. His palms dig into the ground; his nose twitches and he knows he’s seeking something, but he doesn’t know what. Not until he can smell the pump of fresh blood.

He doesn’t see the animal. His jaws snap on it before his eyes can even register that it’s there. Robb feels tiny paws scrabbling at his tongue, bones crushed by his teeth, and he wants to scream. But at the same time, he’s hungrier than he’s ever been before, and hot, coppery blood is flooding his mouth, igniting unfamiliar instincts almost like a fever.

Instincts that aren’t his.

Instincts that can’t be his.

Instincts he’s known all his life.

He wants to kill, and he turns almost without thinking toward the town he can smell and hear through the woods. _The Twins_ , whispers a distant memory, clouded by all his new sensations. He’s been there before, been there recently, but he can’t remember why.

His palms are itching, his fingers curling. One of his fingernails has broken off -- he doesn’t know how -- and he relishes the pain.

He touches the seam on his neck -- the wound healed by the gods. They’ve killed him, he realizes. Robb Stark and Grey Wind both. And they are one now, united in the light of the Blue Moth Moon, a night not recognized by the people of the Twins, by followers of the Faith.

With Grey Wind’s ears, Robb Stark can hear the old gods whispering in the trees. He can feel the kinship of a dozen creatures like him, formed in whole for one night only, crawling up out of the dirt in which they were buried.

He sets forth for the Twins with the taste of blood in his mouth, and he can’t tell if he’s walking on his own two feet or with the dire wolf’s great paws.

The Freys chose a dreadful night to kill him.


End file.
